Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  “It isn’t Sewell, Cousin Whitney,” chanted a singsong voice. “It is I, Cuthbert.” He sauntered over and stood beside her chair where he could avail himself of this new view of the creamy swells above her bodice. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s called solitaire,” Whitney explained in a cool, ungracious voice, “or Napoleon at St. Helena. It can only be played by one person.”

  “I never heard of it,” said Cuthbert, “but you must show me how.”

  Gritting her teeth, Whitney continued to play. Every time she leaned forward to place a card on the table, Cuthbert leaned forward too, feigning interest in the play while his gaze delved into her bodice. Unable to endure it a moment longer, Whitney slapped the cards down and leapt to her feet in irritated resentment. “Must you stare at me?” she snapped.

  “Yes,” Cuthbert rasped, grasping her arms and trying to pull her toward him, “I must.”

  “Cuthbert,” Whitney warned ominously, “I’ll give you just three seconds to take your hands off of me before I start screaming the house down.”

  Unexpectedly, Cuthbert did as she commanded, but as his arms dropped, his body followed. Falling to one knee, he placed a hand over his heart, preparatory to proposing matrimony. “Cousin Whitney,” he murmured hoarsely, indulging himself in a visual fondling of her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head and back down. “I must tell you what is in my heart and mind—”

  “I know what is in your mind,” Whitney interrupted scathingly. “You’ve been ogling me for hours. Now get to your feet!”

  “I have to say it,” he persisted in rising tones. His pudgy hands felt the hem of her blue gown and Whitney snatched her skirt away, half convinced that he intended to lift it and peak beneath it. Deprived of her hem, his hand returned to cover his heart. “I admire you with every fiber of my being. I have the deepest regard for—” Gulping, he broke off, his widened eyes riveted on a point behind her.

  “I sincerely hope,” drawled a lazily amused voice from the doorway, “that I am not interrupting a devoted man at his prayers?” Strolling to Whitney’s side, Clayton looked down at an angry Cuthbert until Whitney’s cousin finally staggered to his feet.

  “My cousin was teaching me a new game of cards, and only one can play,” he said.

  The indulgent amusement in Clayton’s expression vanished. With a curt nod toward the door, he said, “Now that you have learned, go and practice.”

  Cuthbert clenched his fists, hesitated, took a second look at the coldly determined line of his opponent’s jaw, and left. Whitney watched the door close behind him and looked up at Clayton with relieved gratitude. “Thank you, I—”

  “I ought to break your neck!” Clayton interrupted.

  Too late, Whitney realized that she shouldn’t have been standing all this time on her “injured” knee.

  “Allow me to congratulate you on a fine day’s work, Madam,” he said sternly. “In less than twelve hours, you’ve brought Whitticomb to your side and Cuthbert to your feet.”

  Whitney stared at him. Although his tone was very grave, one corner of his mouth was quirked into something that looked suspiciously like a grin. To think she’d been quaking with fear because she thought he was furious? “You devil!” she whispered, torn between laughter and anger.

  “I would hardly describe you as an angel,” Clayton mocked.

  All day, Whitney’s emotions had been careening crazily between anger, dread, fear, and relief, rebounding from one near calamity to the next narrow escape. And now, gazing up at the darkly handsome man who was amused instead of enraged, as she’d expected, the last vestige of her control slipped away. Tears of exhausted relief sprang to her green eyes. “This has been the most awful day,” she whispered.

  “Probably because you’ve been missing me,” he said with such ironic derision that Whitney’s shoulders trembled with mirth.

  “Missing you?” she giggled incredulously. “I could cheerfully murder you.”

  “I’d come back to haunt you,” he threatened with a grin.

  “And that,” she said, “is the only reason why I haven’t tried.” Without warning, what had started as a giggle became a choked sob, and tears came spilling down her cheeks.

  Clayton’s arm slid gently around her. He was offering her comfort, and Whitney accepted it. Turning into his arms, she buried her face against his dove-gray jacket and wept out her troubles in the embrace of the man who was responsible for causing them. When the tears finally subsided, Whitney remained where she was, her cheek resting against the solid, comforting wall of his chest.

  “Feel better now?” he murmured.

  Whitney nodded sheepishly and accepted his proffered handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. “I can’t remember crying after I was twelve years old, but since I came back here a few weeks ago, it seems as if I’m forever weeping.” Glancing up, Whitney surprised a look of pained regret in his eyes. “May I ask you something?” she said softly.

  “Anything,” Clayton replied.

  “Within your power, and within reason, of course,” Whitney reminded him with a teary half smile.

  He accepted her mild jibe with an amused inclination of his head.

  “Whatever made you do this Gothic thing?” she asked him quietly, without rancor. “Whatever made you come to my father, without speaking to me first, scarcely knowing me?” Although there was no change in his expression, Whitney felt his muscles tense, and she quickly explained, “I’m only trying to understand what you could have been thinking of. We didn’t get along well at the Armands’ masquerade. I mocked your title and rebuffed your advances, yet you decided you wanted to marry me, of all people. Why me?”

  “Why do you think I chose you?”

  “I don’t know. No man offers for a woman merely to make her miserable and ruin her life, so you must have had another reason.”

  Despite the unintended insult in her words, Clayton grinned. She was letting him hold her, and he was feeling extremely tolerant. “You can’t condemn me for wanting you, unless you condemn every other man who has. And arranged marriages may be Gothic, but they have been a custom in the best families for centuries.”

  Whitney sighed. “In yours perhaps, but not in mine. And I can’t believe that in those marriages there wasn’t at least a chance that both people would eventually come to like one another, even to develop an affection for each other.”

  “Can you honestly say that you haven’t occasionally felt a liking for me?” he persisted gently. “Even against your will?”

  There was no mockery or challenge in his tone to justify an argumentative denial, and Whitney’s innate fairness prevented her from attacking without provocation. She shrugged uncomfortably and looked away. “Occasionally.”

  “But always against your will?” Clayton teased.

  In spite of herself, Whitney smiled. “Against my will, and against my better judgment.” His eyes warmed and Whitney cautiously changed the subject. “You promised to tell me why you wanted to marry me, and you haven’t.”

  “How could I have known when I came here that you would set out to despise me the moment you saw me?” he countered.

  “Clayton!” Whitney burst out, then froze in surprise at the sound of her voice using his given name. Hastily, she corrected her error. “My lord duke—”

  “I liked it much better the other way.”

  “My lord duke,” she persisted stubbornly as the quiet intimacy of their truce began to crumble, “you answer all my questions with questions! What in heaven’s name possessed you to come here and offer for me?” At last Whitney realized that his arms were around her, and she jerked away. “And don’t bother trying to tell me that you thought you loved me.”

  “I didn’t.” Clayton agreed equably. “As you have just pointed out, I hardly knew you at the time.”

  Whitney turned her back on him unable to understand why his answer hurt her. “Wonderful!” she said bitterly. “Now it is all perfectly clear. You met me a time or
two and, knowing nothing about me—caring nothing about me—you came to England and purchased me from my greedy, penniless father, who drove a sound bargain and then sent for me to hand me over to you!” She swung around, ready—eager—for battle, but Clayton simply stood there, calm and impervious, refusing to take up the gauntlet.

  In angry despair, Whitney sank back down into the chair she’d occupied earlier, and picked up the cards. “This is solitaire,” she said, dismissing him as she resumed the game she’d left unfinished. “It’s all the rage in France, but it can only be played by one person.”

  Clayton watched her. “In this instance, my lady, it would seem to require two.” Leaning down he deftly made four obvious plays which Whitney had overlooked because Cuthbert had been hanging over her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Whitney said. “But I would rather play this alone.”

  Turning, he went to the door, and Whitney thought he was finally leaving. Instead he spoke to a servant in a low tone, and a moment later he came back to the table and placed an intricately carved rosewood box, belonging to her father, before her. Flipping up the lid, he exposed stacks of wooden chips. Whitney recognized them as the same sort of chips which Uncle Edward and his friends used when they gambled at cards.

  A quiver of excitement shot through her as she realized that Clayton apparently intended to teach her how to use them. What a shocking, scandalous thing for him even to contemplate . . . but it was such an intriguing idea that Whitney made no protest. She watched as Clayton shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carelessly over her father’s desk. Sitting down across from her, he unbuttoned his gray waistcoat, leaned back in his chair, and inclined his head toward the deck of cards. “Deal,” he said.

  Whitney was so nervous about the severe breach of propriety she was committing, that she knew she’d never be able to shuffle the cards properly. She gathered them together and pushed the deck toward Clayton. Fascinated, she watched the cards spring to life in his hands, flying into place with a whoosh and a snap as he shuffled them. Her voice was tinged with reluctant admiration. “I’ll bet you’re acquainted with every gaming hall in London.”

  “Intimately,” he agreed. Palming the deck face down on the table, he raised a dark, challenging brow at her. “Cut the cards,” he said.

  Whitney hesitated, trying unsuccessfully to maintain a cool, disdainful attitude toward him, but how could she when he looked so outrageously handsome and elegantly dissolute? Lounging nonchalantly in that chair, with his waistcoat open at the front, he was the personification of the well-bred gentleman at the gaming table—and he was going to teach her how to play. Besides, she knew in her heart that he was trying to cheer her and distract her from her troubles. “I hope you know,” she said, leaning forward, her hand hovering uncertainly over the deck, “that if anyone sees me doing this, my reputation will be destroyed.”

  Clayton gave her a long, meaningful look. “A duchess can do as she pleases.”

  “I am not a duchess,” Whitney returned.

  “But you’re going to be,” he said with absolute finality.

  Whitney opened her mouth to argue, but he nodded toward the deck. “Cut the cards.”

  Gambling, Whitney thought two hours later as she stacked the chips away, made one feel deliciously wicked and decadent. Despite her unfamiliarity with the games, she had played very well and lost only a little money. She sensed that Clayton was proud of how quickly she learned, yet any other gentleman of her acquaintance, even Nicki, would have been horrified that she seemed to possess such a penchant for gaming. Why, she wondered absently, watching Clayton button his waistcoat and pull on his jacket, did he admire in her the very things that would shock or intimidate her other suitors? When she was with Paul, she had to be very careful to stay well within the bounds of feminine propriety, yet Clayton seemed to like her best when she was being her most outrageously impertinent self. If Paul knew she had gambled at cards, he would be shocked and displeased, yet Clayton had taught her to play and grinned at her in open admiration when she did it well.

  Her thoughts scattered as Clayton leaned over her chair and pressed a light kiss on her upturned forehead. “We’ll go for a drive tomorrow at 11 o’clock if the weather permits,” he said. And he left.

  * * *

  Dr. Hugh Whitticomb was seated before the fire enjoying a glass of his host’s excellent brandy when Clayton returned. “How did you find my young patient?” he asked with pretended casualness as Clayton poured himself a nightcap.

  Sitting down, Clayton propped his feet on the low table between them, and gazed dispassionately at the physician. “I found her much the same as you probably did this afternoon—standing on her own two feet.”

  “You don’t sound very pleased about it,” Dr. Whitticomb remarked evasively.

  “I found her,” Clayton clarified with a grim smile, “receiving a proposal of marriage from one of her cousins.”

  Dr. Whitticomb made an impressive show of choking upon his brandy while he struggled to keep his face straight. “I can understand how that might have surprised you.”

  “I have long passed the point where anything Whitney does surprises me,” he said, but his irritated tone completely denied his philosophical words.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Whitticomb said, “I am a detached observer and not inexperienced in dealing with the female mind. If you will pardon the presumption of an old family friend, perhaps I might be able to offer some advice?” Taking the duke’s silence for consent, Dr. Whitticomb continued, “I have already gathered that Miss Stone wants something you aren’t willing to give her. What is it that she wants?”

  “What she wants,” Clayton replied sardonically, “is to be released from the betrothal contract.”

  Dr. Whitticomb gave a bark of horrified laughter. “My God! No wonder she glowered at me when I offered subtle suggestions on how she ought to comport herself in order to keep you.” Conflicting thoughts chased across his mind—amazement that the young lady could find fault with an offer from England’s most eligible, most sought after bachelor; admiration for Clayton’s patience in dealing with her rebellion; and bewilderment over why the most eagerly awaited betrothal announcement in a decade was being kept hushed. “What objection does the lovely widgeon have to your offer?” he said finally.

  Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Clayton closed his eyes and sighed. “That I neglected to consult her first.”

  “I can’t see why she should fault you for that. But then, knowing her independent temperament as you must have done, why didn’t you consult with her first?”

  Clayton opened his eyes, “Since she didn’t even know my name at the time, I felt that it might be awkward to discuss marriage with her.”

  “She didn’t know your . . . You can’t mean to tell me that with half the females in Europe throwing themselves at you, you offered for a young woman you didn’t even know!”

  “I knew her. She did not know me.”

  “And you automatically assumed that once she learned of your wealth and title, she would naturally consent,” Dr. Whitticomb speculated, his eyes dancing with amusement. The duke’s quelling frown temporarily silenced him. “Who,” he asked as a sudden, unsettling recollection struck him, “is Paul Sevarin?”

  Clayton scowled. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I stopped in the village this afternoon after seeing Miss Stone, and spoke with the apothecary. He’s a chatty fellow—the sort who tells you everything you didn’t ask before he answers a simple question, and follows that with half a dozen questions of his own. Eventually he discovered the name of my patient, and he said some things which at the time I dismissed as nonsense.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that this Sevarin has been dangling after Miss Stone in earnest, and the village seems to be hanging on tenterhooks in expectation of a betrothel announcement. They seem to think the betrothal has already been arranged, and is entirely pleasing to Sevar
in and your future wife.”

  “Frankly,” Clayton drawled, “I don’t give a blessed damn.”

  “About the gossip?” Hugh Whitticomb persisted carefully. “Or about Sevarin? Or about the girl?” When Clayton didn’t answer, Hugh leaned forward and asked bluntly. “Are you, or are you not, in love with that young woman?”

  “I am going to marry her,” Clayton said stonily. “What else is there to say?” With that, he bid his guest good night and in four long strides, quit the room, leaving Hugh Whitticomb gazing at the fire in amazed alarm. After a moment, however, the physician’s expression cleared. He began to chuckle and then he laughed aloud. “God help him.” He chortled. “He doesn’t realize he is in love with her. And even if he did, he wouldn’t admit it.”

  In his small bedroom, Clayton jerked off his jacket, flinging it onto a chair. His waistcoat followed. Loosening the top buttons of his shirt, he stalked over to the window and jammed his hands into his pockets.

  He was furious that the villagers believed a betrothal had already been arranged. True, he had wanted Whitney to have the satisfaction of showing them that she could make Sevarin pursue her, but he had never dreamed things would go this far. Whitney had never been betrothed to any man but him, and he would not allow anyone to think otherwise. She didn’t love Sevarin, regardless of what she thought. She simply had some idiotic notion, some girlish dream, of winning him away from the Ashton girl.

  She didn’t love him either, but Clayton wasn’t concerned about that. “Love” and all the obsessive behavior associated with it, was an absurd emotion. He was amazed that Hugh Whitticomb had mentioned the word to him tonight. No one in his set ever professed to feeling anything stronger than a “tendre” or a lasting attachment even for their spouses. Love was a silly, romantic notion that had no place in his life.